


24 Hours

by LivingSilver



Category: Ozark (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Touch starved Marty, lap dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23728705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivingSilver/pseuds/LivingSilver
Summary: The strip club scene re-imagined.
Relationships: Marty Byrde/Raven
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	24 Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Just basically disappointed I was deprived of watching Jason Bateman get a lap dance.
> 
> Despite watching all 3 seasons of Ozark, I still don't know anything about numbers or money or whatever so hopefully these metaphors land *yikes face*.

Marty hopes he's chosen wisely as the girl leads him by the hand to a backroom; hopes she won't turn out to be more hardened than her lack of years would imply; hopes the slow half smile she throws at him from over her shoulder is all it promises to be and nothing more.

No, there's a sweetness about her, he decides taking a seat in the booth to which she's brought him. He could sense it out on the floor. Its why he picked her.

He's not really paying attention as she strips out of her flimsy bikini top, averting his eyes absent mindedly to the rest of the club.

And then she's draping her too thin body against him, ass in his lap, back to his chest. Its _jarring_ to say the least. To be touched in so many places all at once after living in his touch starved marriage. Her hand curling around the side of his neck. It feels _nice_. A touch that tingles between his shoulder blades and spreads.

And Marty is very good at compartmentalizing. He's got different accounts in every part of his soul. When one of them flags, when he starts to feel too much, all he has to do is freeze and clone the assets. Move them to a new offshore account within himself where they'll be safe and it starts all over again. But he's only a man after all, he has to make withdrawals every now and then like everyone does. Only lately, every now and then has been running more and more together. And they're not really withdrawals so much as runs on the fucking bank. Everything involuntarily drained out of him against his will.

"So what do you wanna do?"

He hasn't slept in days, and his exhaustion seems eager to find a home in her, absorbing up into the fingertips skimming over the base of his scalp so softly.

Fuck. Fuck it. What was it he said to Wendy before he left? He had to get dirty?

"I want you to dance and I want you to tell me about your boss."

She's not responding, she's just sitting in lap looking at him.

"Can you do that for me? Can you just dance and tell me about your boss?" He repeats, blue eyes meeting hers.

She gives a small nod.

"Yeah, um, okay."

She stands hesitantly, turning to face him before straddling his lap, steadying herself with a light hand on his shoulder.

He takes a pull of his beer.

"So like what do you wanna know?" She asks, starting to roll her hips slowly over him. She's left a few scant inches between them. Not any _real_ contact, just the ghost of it. He likes that.

"Well like, what kind of guy is he?" Marty returns, easy enough place to start without spooking her any more than he already has.

"Fuckin' asshole."

She gives a little toss of her long hair.

Good. That's good, he already knew that.

He shrugs.

"What kind of car does he drive?"

"Corvette."

"Is that the only car he drives?"

"Not sure. Think he might have a pick up too."

"What about things? Nice things, nice boats, nice anything? Anything unusual?"

She bites her lip, continuing a smooth rhythm of circles and figure-8's, nothing sophisticated or interesting at all, but he's still going _warm_ from the closeness of it all, pulse ticking up.

"He likes to take vacations," she offers at last, "like real vacations, out of the country."

Marty raises a brow in interest.

"Oh yeah, out of the country, like where? Mexico?"

She shakes her head.

"No, but it's somewhere like that down there."

Marty flicks his gaze out towards the floor.

"Panama," she decides after a breath, "wherever the hell that is."

She lets her hips dip a little too low. A hint of friction passing electric between them.

He takes a sip of his beer to hide the hitch in his breath.

"Can I see one your paystubs? Would you meet me outside of the club somewhere?"

His voice is lower than it was before.

She looks at him with the sum of her growing suspicions, fingers tightening uncertainly on his shoulder.

"What do you want? Why are you asking all these questions?"

Marty pulls out a few more bills.

"I'll make it worth your time," he offers, slipping them delicately into the band of her thong.

She nods after a moment.

"Alright."

Her hips drop again, just so, and Marty relaxes into the booth with a breath, lets his gaze really drift over her body for the first time now that business is settled.

She gives him a small smile.

"You're handsome, you can touch if you want."

He can touch if he wants. _Jesus_. It's done. He should get her number and leave.

He turns his gaze out through tthe beaded curtain. Everyone in the club is distracted as they should be.

He hasn't touched anyone but Wendy in 22 years. 22 years. Guess he's going to have to restart the clock on that one.

It's a simple thing really. Just a cautious run of his thumb up the side of her rib cage, and her eyes kind of flutter, so he risks a skim of his knuckles next. She shifts her full weight into him then, what little space existed between them effectively disappearing as she grinds unhurriedly against him. Both of her hands on his shoulders now. Face inches from his. Its heady. Turns his breath shallow. He feels _wanted._ He's forgotten what that feels like somewhere within the past 22 years.

Thinks about what he would do if this wasn't a room in a strip club. Run his hand the length of her spine. Kiss her. Seek out enough touch to feel whole again as if this slip of a girl could really offer him such a thing. He would devour her whole trying.

He's really filling out now, half hard in his jeans, and she's climbing out of his lap, dropping to her knees between the v of his legs. His dignity catches her wrist as she reaches for his fly.

"I still want to see that paystub," he reminds her, gazing down at where she still kneels on the floor, wrist still caught in his grasp.

He releases it and gives her a card.

She stands reluctantly, turning it in her hand.

"Won't be a problem," she says through the thick of her lashes.

Marty leaves. The scent of cigarettes and cheap perfume clinging to him. His skin still thrumming, and gets off in his car still high from the contact. Doesn't take much at all before he's spilling over his hand.

Freeze and clone the assets. Move them to a new account. Crawl into the bed of his dead marriage, and take what little sleep his body will at last allow him.


End file.
